Page 33 of Thorns of Death

“You often cook?” I asked her as I cut the celery she handed me.

She shrugged her one bare shoulder. “I try, but I’m not great at it. Maybe I need more practice.”

She slid on a pair of funny-looking glasses—more like goggles—and started chopping onions with a serious expression, all businesslike.

“What are you doing?” I asked, staring at her in shock. She looked like she was about to jump into a pool with those things on her face. Like a kid playing grown-up.

She lifted her face and gave me a sheepish smile. “I don’t want to cry.”

Silence stretched for two heartbeats. I threw my head back and laughed. She burst into a giggle too. It evolved into a full-blown, happy laugh, and I smiled as I listened to it, my own chest shaking.

She pulled her goggles off, still grinning. “I have to say, I’ve seen a lot of women cook,” I mused. “But nobody—fucking ever—comes close to you.”

She winked, chuckling. “I’m a special kind of woman.”

I smirked. “The best kind. Now, how about plates?”

She reached into the cabinet, pulled out two plates, and set them on the counter. “Want some wine?” she offered.

“Sure, what kind do you have?”

Her eyes darted to the little corner that served as a liquor section. “Well, there’s generic white and red wine, and some stronger stuff. For emergencies.” She gave me a sheepish smile. “The girls and I usually go out to drink.”

My eyebrow twitched. I had seen her do shots with friends firsthand, making me wonder how many times she’d come home with a man after one of these so-called girls’ nights. It wasn’t jealousy, but something inside me burned with the need to possess her.

Ever since I read that file on her, I’d been obsessing over her. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

“Red,” I said, pushing down my infuriating thoughts. She nodded and went to retrieve the bottle and two wineglasses before setting them alongside our plates. She moved efficiently, her bare feet quiet against the tile. Her gaze flicked my way as she pulled out a drawer and found a corkscrew.

“Where are your roommates?” I extended my hand, and she dropped the bottle and the opener wordlessly.

“Gone,” she answered, watching me open the wine and pour some into both of our glasses. “I probably won’t see them today.”

Good. It meant we wouldn’t be interrupted. I’d ensure Donatella was out of the city—if it was indeed her following Isla—before the insane woman hurt my woman.

My woman. Mia donna.Goddamn! Nothing had ever sounded so fucking good. So perfect. Isla é mia donna. Yes, she was my woman. And nobody would take her away from me.

She reached for the plate with little, ridiculous-looking sandwiches. “Cucumber and avocado sandwiches. Healthy. I think.”

I took one, although I had no interest in eating cucumber sandwiches. Whatever the fuck that was. We ate salami and prosciutto on our bread. Even olive oil, but definitely not cucumbers.

She added two onto her own plate.

She bit into her sandwich and winced. I’d be foregoing the sandwich for sure. “We should probably stick to the salad,” she muttered, throwing it back onto her plate. “These are disgusting.”

The corners of my lips tugged up.

“How many times have you gone home with a man?” I asked abruptly. The question had been burning on my tongue.

My question must have thrown her off because she raised her eyebrows. She took a seat and extended her hand to grip the one opposite to hers as if to steady herself.

“Well, if you must know, you were the first,” she muttered, her tone slightly bratty. “Now, instead of asking personal questions, want to do the honors of tossing the salad, Mr. Marchetti?”

“I’d love to toss your salad,” I remarked. I wondered if she’d be up for ass play. I wanted to spank her ass red, ignite this simmering attraction into a full-blown volcano and see where it took us.

“Mr. Marchetti!” Her face turned beet red as desire shimmered in her eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, but I’m not that kind of girl. Besides, come anywhere near my asshole and you’ll see what a woman’s wrath is.”

My chest shook with laughter. Jesus, this woman was unlike any I had met before. In the best possible sense.